To Those Who May Never Become Kings
by HopelessOsaka
Summary: Greece/Japan. Kiku and Heracles spend the afternoon lazing on the hillside of a park, musing of kites in the sky, of Apollo and a Spartan prince, of how deeply Kiku fears holding fragile things, and of women.


_Greece/Japan. Kiku and Heracles spend the afternoon lazing on the hillside of a park, musing of kites in the sky, of Apollo and a Spartan prince, of how deeply Kiku fears holding fragile things, and of women._

Yeah, so I totally did not mention France every two sentences in a Greece/Japan fic. I swear.

A twist at the end. Its common variation: "I Am Plato, Sucker Punching Your Gut."

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**TO THOSE WHO MAY NEVER BECOME KINGS**

* * *

Heracles lazes amid the darkening grasses of an upcoming summer, beside Kiku who sits tidily on his calves, high on the hill of a park within a city in his home. Many pearly-colored bells chime from the tattered handle grips of cyclists, who can be heard rushing by not far above them, sending sand and gravel trilling amongst each other as they pass. Before the two of them, not a mile away, several kites dance slowly in a cloudless sky, as if the re-embodiments of lovers never allowed being. Kiku watches those kites, a soft expression caressing his face, as well as a pleasant breeze that weaves between their bodies without aid. Heracles watches Kiku from his place, pensively.

"It brings me nostalgia, whenever I find children flying kites," the island nation divulges to the man sprawled out on his backside. "Even when I was young, there were kites. Although I do not like to think of my youth, I suddenly desire it…"

Heracles turns his gaze languidly to the kites that drift amidst blue. There is a yellow one, and a white one, both simple, dancing about each other gracefully. There is a third kite, patterned in what could be peonies or five-pointed stars or fishhooks, far away from the twirling two, yet seeming to yearningly reach toward them.

"It reminds me of a tale from my mother's Greece," says Heracles, eyes half-lidded and voice drowsy as he speaks, "Of Apollo, the god of many things beauteous, such as light and truth and youth, and of a young man he was courting, the exquisite and athletic Spartan prince, Hyacinthus. I remember…that one day, they practicing throwing a discus for a coming competition. Another man who had been courting the prince, Zephyr, saw the two, and in a fit of jealousy, had the discus change its course. It struck Hyacinthus in the head, and killed him instantly."

Kiku's gaze falls to him, for a moment, regarding the Grecian with curiosity. "I've heard of that tale from your mother's Greece. It was Francis who told me, for some reason. Zephyr was a gentle wind, was he not?"

Indolently, Heracles shrugs in response. "I'm not sure. It could be that Apollo, in his grief and fury, transformed him into the wind; although if that's so, I wonder who truly murdered the prince before then? Nevertheless…Apollo wept for him, the Spartan prince. The hyacinth flower was created by his hands for that memory, and his tears stained its flower petals with sadness."

"That is very strange for me," Kiku confesses, voice holding a light wonderment, "The gods of my realm have never been as human as those of yours."

"I've met very few of them, and not so long ago. They were not so vibrant, after my mother left the earth." Heracles stays quiet for awhile, although Kiku's eyes do not leave him. "Kiku, have you ever met one of your gods?"

His ears acutely hear the rustle of fabric after his query, and from the corner of his vision he sees the island nation shift. Possibly he is apprehensive, as Kiku's face stills.

"I do not think often of back then," Kiku replies. His gaze travels back to the kite, Heracles sees.

He turns back to face the sky as well. A silence fills the space between them for a long time; although it is not unpleasant, when he speaks again, he breaks its sobriety.

"That 'back then'…from what I hear from Francis, the practices of your nation were not so dissimilar from that of my mother's, long ago. There was pederasty in your place at one time, wasn't there?"

"Yes," answers Kiku, quietly. "Though it was not often as romantic as the _boys' love_ genre is portrayed these days, in the comics of my country. Francis has read them, it seems."

"I see," Heracles says, "I know."

The yellow kite, bright and nearly glowing, turns away, reeling further and further from the one it had been near. The plainer white kite seems to chase it, yet not long afterward it falls back, lower. The patterned one still lingers in its place, near the yellow, although Heracles is certain it had been pursuing the white kite. Perhaps there is a skirmish between the two forthcoming, the yellow kite protective and the patterned one resentful. Or perhaps the patterned kite hides his longings, while the yellow kite hides _from_ his longings, and the white kite they both covet can no longer be reached. Or perhaps the two have realized desires that are broader, for once concerning each other.

"Did you ever love, Kiku?"

Minutes pass them by, and yet as the white kite continues to fall, neither the yellow or patterned kite touch the other; they appear to waver in a much more awkward, distant dance, as if imagined barriers isolate their spots in the sky.

He does not quite expect the answer when it comes.

"A youth?" Kiku murmurs, "I suppose I did, once."

Heracles is on his elbows before Kiku finishes his statement. He stares at Kiku, but Kiku does not even seem to notice, his gaze again on the kites, intense, yet somehow faraway.

"I never touched him, however. It is a startling thing for me, still, that people do. I rarely touch what I hold beloved. It is not like me."

"What happened to him?" insists Heracles.

Kiku blinks. He looks to him again, bemused.

"I forgot you were so young, Heracles," he says, "…He died, of course. Uncaring. He was like Francis; he loved many men and women in his life."

Heracles' lips part in surprise; they form an 'o,' although his eyes do not break away. They continue to stare at each other, for awhile.

After some time passes, Heracles' shoulders slacken, and he unfurls against the grass once more as the color of the sky cools.

"That's…fine," he manages to acknowledge, "That's…that is, if my mother…ever loved a woman back then, she'd have had a harder time attempting to express her feelings than the men of her time, regardless. It's stranger that the lives of men flourished in such ways back then, and yet the women's were too often suppressed, whilst all while it turned out that their beloved realm was incarnate in a woman, my mother. I suppose that is why she resided and spent more of her time in Sparta."

"Hyachinthus' Sparta? Was it much freer there?" asks Kiku, still looking to him.

"Yes, in a way," Heracles muses, "Greece was more in pieces back then than now, in any case."

"I see."

They turn back to the sky.

The kite with the pattern of probable peonies, of possible stars or fishhooks, begins to fall. As if suddenly noticing, the yellow one, whipped by the wind, lunges toward the other.

"I've forgotten how to be a woman," says Kiku.

The two kites collide.

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**END**

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End file.
